Hm. You know, Driscoll. Nobody ever really asks. You can. I am quite certain you have noticed it by now

Driscoll looked, thoughtfully for a moment, but then saw Orson descend the rope. While it was interesting, and perhaps an obligation of his curiosity in all things magical to ask if he could, there was also the fact that there was a job to do, and Orson had followed suit in the pattern. Perhaps there was time, perhaps not. Decisions, decisions, curiosity or money, which was it.

A war waged within his head between the two factions--arguably the shortest war ever in existence, clocking in only about six seconds. The victor?

The gray elf then inquired, "Since you say it is permissible to ask, I must sate my curiosity. What exactly is with your eyes; they're not the result of any particular spell or enchantment I can identify, and that lack of knowledge I personally feel I must rectify immediately."

Okay, that was a long-winded question, but...what can one say?

(Eventually, for the sake of brooming, yes, Driscoll would go down the rope next)

(Right. I'll leave Kai to answer at her leisure. In the meantime, brooming.)

Gillet moved on, turning this next corner and coming upon a open door ahead. A cautious peek through it revealed a rather wider cross-corridor, with open double doors in both directions.

------------------------

Driscoll proved to be the next to descend the rope, quite possibly to Orson's ire, with Tristan and Safiyeh following in quick succession. Above, Sel peered over the rim, making sure everyone was down safely. Abruptly, he stiffened, straightening and giving his surroundings a thorough check.

"Everything alright up there, Sel?" Kenner asked.

Long moments passed before Sel again leaned over to speak, "Thought I heard somethin'. Must've been - urgh!" Sel's words were abruptly cut off as something struck him. Overbalancing, he plummeted into the shaft, barely giving those below time to scatter out of the way before he struck with a sickening crunch.

Mocking laughter drifted down from above, along with the severed rope. Those looking upwards would see a dark-haired, bearded man framed against the night sky, bloody dagger still in hand. This, based upon Lavinia's descriptions, was Vanthus Vanderboren.

Gillet looked around, then chose the door on the left. He could hear water sloshing on the left, and figured there was probably an access to the sea on that side. Hidden cove sounds likely, the gnome thought. Maybe we can hijack a boat later, it's always an option.

Driscoll looked up at the figure; clearly someone with no issues with sneaking around and stabbing things. Pity he wasn't on their side; he'd be better than Gillet has been in those regards as of late...

...but digressing. This guy was also overconfident, and all for mocking the group, it seemed. How...irritating.

The elf looked up and retorted; he could still see decently well, even in the poor light, "Ah, so I take it you're Vanthus. How nice of you to come to us. I thought you would go through the effort to make us all frustrated simply looking for you. I'll have to give you a token of my appreciation, if you don't mind."

He grinned. He commanded magics far stronger than a simple stab of a knife--and to that extent, he found it to be perfectly useful as of now...

Quickly shifting through hand-motions, the light appeared to bend in a small sphere in front of the war-mage, before said sphere of force jetted off towards Vanthus at impossible speeds...

"Arcane power, kill swiftly! Mana Strike!"

(I'm casting Magic Missile, and I am attacking the Cockiness!(AKA: Vanthus) 6+2(roll) damage! If he can, he's trying to make it smack him in the face)

Safiyeh pondered how best to explain the issue to Driscoll. It likely wasn't necessary to give him exhaustive details about her family's situation, but just because nobody knew didn't make it secret.

Once Safiyeh was down, she blinked as her eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light. "Well, it is not as complicated as it seems. When I was young my par--"

Then Sel dropped into the tunnel.

The truth was, she rather liked Sel. Both he and Kenner had been reliable and helpful, risking themselves to assist in whatever way they could. They also, unlike the intermittently-annoying Tristan, were quiet except when offering productive advice.

Her assessment of the situation was brief. For once.

No negotiation.

Safiyeh had reliable allies, who could have let her down several times if they'd chosen. She owed them more loyalty than this.

She reached into her belt and decided to take advantage of the disparity in light. Her enemy was silhouetted against the outside, whereas down in the tunnels she and her allies were a little more difficult to hit properly. Pulling a dart, she flipped it up through the hole at the gent standing and taunting them.

As the dart slipped from her fingers, she noted with amusement that Driscoll apparently had a few choice words for the stranger. Bizarre twist of fate that was. Safiyeh being the first to leap into combat and leaving the conversation and pleasantries to others.

At the very least, this man didn't seem to be any friend of her new allies', so she had no qualms about joining with them to kill him if necessary. If nothing else, it could be a valuable learning experience.

(Total of +6 to hit, which I'm assuming is going to miss. However, it was a nice gesture, and that was half the point.)

His attention suddenly jerked back towards the entrance, Orson spots the man, apparently the Vanthus he was supposed to find.... and grinned. "You know," he quipped, "All that goddamned work and I figured we'd end up wasting our time." He eyed the way he came and wondered if he could actually make the entrance with a decent jump... probably not, but it was the best he could do while distracting the man.

Vanthus ducked hurriedly out of view, only to have the energy bolt dart sideways. There was a howl of pain, and it sounded as if Vanthus had been quite badly hurt, but not, apparently, badly enough. The next event made it clear that he was still up and moving. The trapdoor swung closed, falling with a loud crash which echoed through the tunnels. Soon afterwards, there was a loud grinding noise, as of someone pushing a large rock to block the entrance. On the plus side, there was no further gloating.

It was a sound which would punctuate any discussions for a while to come, as Vanthus piled boulders atop the trapdoor.

-------------------

Gillet made his way over to the door, and peered through. A large chamber, by the looks, with four wooden pillars holding up a ceiling which sagged dangerously in places. The cieling to the south had collapsed, leaving piles of rubble choking the southern part of the room. Water pooled in the southern part of the room, and it seemed a wooden pier had once extended into it, though it had fallen into disrepair. The sloshing, it seemed, emanated from one of several doors, this particular one leading west.

What really caught Gillet's attention, however, was movement. Three figures were moving vaguely about the unlit room, and Gillet couldn't help but feel there wassomething wrong here. Humans needed light, surely?

Then a loud crash reverberated through the tunnels, clearly coming from back the way he came. This attracted the figures' attention, and as one, they turned towards the door where Gillet stood, emitting low moaning noises from rotting faces. Zombies!

(Behold - a map. The part of Tristan will be played by Hakaril, because I'm lazy.)

Zombies!! Gillet screamed silently. He turned around and hightailed it back the way he came, still as silently as possible, trusting that they wouldn't be able to catch up with him before he made it at least back to the rope (not knowing that the rope was gone). When he came to the door he had gone through, he checked it for locking mechanisms and found none (according to the DM). He decided to carefully shut it anyway, because zombies weren't known for being handy with a knob. Another fifty feet of hallway - it seemed like six hundred now, but the first time there weren't any pursuing undead - brought him around the corner and blinking in the sudden radiance of Kenner's lantern. He saw the way up was blocked, and cursed his bad luck. The hallway they were in was a bad place to stand against an enemy.

He spoke in a low voice, obviously afraid. "I don't know what that noise was, but it's about to attract some zombies. I saw three, but I think I heard others. There's a shut door in their way but I don't know how long that will hold them. What happened to the way out?"

"The short answer," replied Tristan, "is that the way out has been blocked by our man, Varkus, if I am not mistaken. Driscoll here attempted to peg him with a spell as he retreated, but alas, it was not sufficient to drop him where he stood. Without some sort of digging apparatus, or at least a willingness to cause a cave-in," noted the nobleman, "we are stuck going back the direction you just came from. Which, as you just noted, is apparently populated by the walking dead."

Tristan shivered a little bit. The idea of corpses, half-decayed and worm-eaten, walking the earth as though they had never been robbed of life was highly unsettling. He silently prayed to no deity in particular, requesting that his remains be allowed to rest undisturbed in the tombs of his ancestors, perhaps next to his uncle Galen Redford, or on the shelf beneath his dearly departed father, Alexander Malthas Redford, Ishtar rest his weary soul...

Shaking it off and coughing slightly, Tristan adjusted his cravat and surveyed the expressions of his new allies. "I propose that we can handle a few zombies. While I have no idea how many you saw, sir gnome, it is my understanding that zombies are no true challenge for prepared warriors! Why, my grandfather Wilhelm Redford reportedly laid out sixty slavering walking corpses, all clearly hungry for brains, with naught but his quick wits and his rapier!" The young mage quickly adopted a faux-fencing pose, moving his hands and feet as though striking at invisible enemies with an equally invisible blade.

It was at this point that Tristan snapped back to reality and realized that Sel had fallen from the shaft above, potentially dead, and he dropped to one knee to check the man's vital signs.

Gillet looked at Tristan for a moment, than at his own rapier. He obviously has never used one of these, by the movements he's making, he thought. It's not really a zombie-killing weapon in any case, I'll have to find some other way to be useful here. I'm pretty sure trying to stab out vital organs won't work either, because they're already dead. He then thought of the oil he kept in his pack for emergencies. Last resort.

Sel, it seemed, was alive, though possibly not long for this world if something wasn't done. Tristan could feel a pulse in his neck, at least, even if he was unconscious. Mercifully so, given the way the bone was sticking through the skin of his arm like that. To say nothing of the nasty wound in his back.

Doubtless there were other injuries to be dealt with too, but these were the obvious ones to Tristan.

Kenner, having gotten over his initial shock, was cursing a blue streak at the unseen Vanthus, though this stopped abruptly at the word 'zombies'. He was looking decidedly pale now.

Tristan shivered a little. He was not a medic or a doctor. He was not a healer of any sort at all, in fact, and he was entirely too close to a dying man for comfort. To be knelt over a corpse would somehow be less unsettling than to be so close to a man that could be drawing his final breaths in these moments. An expression of panic crept onto the nobleman's face as he quickly rose to his feet.

"Well, what are you waiting for!? He's alive, but we can't count on that forever at this rate! Somebody do something for this poor man!"

Gillet knew from personal experience that neither of his original allies had any sort of healing power, so he looked to Safiyeh and Kenner. Actually, if one of them can heal the injured, that'd be good to know, he thought. Lavinia said we'd have to get our wounds healed ourselves after she had to spring for the potions last time.

"Sorry, ain't good at healing people," Orson quipped, a small smile on his face as he did. THIS was what he was good at. Not all this polite backstabbing crap. That just wasn't him. Not what he was hired for. But attacking zombies and an asshole who has tried to trap him and his new associates (Still not safe to think of them as companions)? THAT was something that Orson could relate to. He drew his ornate sword and calmly started in the direction that Gillet had just run from.

"Yeah, don't think I can help ya with that. But these zombies? I'm sure I can help em get back to sleep well enough. Either way, we need to get out of here fast. Gillet, you find an exit aside from the one we came through? We might need it quick-like."

"I'm not sure, but I did hear some water. There's a T intersection up ahead, and it sounds to me like there's water sloshing around on the left side. I couldn't get a close enough look with the zombies milling around, but I thought I might even have seen a disused pier."

Safiyeh dropped to her knees next to Sel and Tristan. "Tristan, please to be quiet. I do not know what we can do for him."

She bent over Sel, she whispered to herself in her own language. "I don't know what you'd want us to do. All I can do is keep you clean and maybe stop you from bleeding, okay? Just work with me. Maybe I can help."

With a sigh she yanked her waterskin out of her pack. It should have enough to clean his wounds a bit, and even if it didn't...

That little voice in her head that told her meddling with water was wrong started up once more.

No. If we need water, I make it. Last time I hesitated a friend nearly lost his home. Not again. I am here, and we do this their way.

"I will try to clean him off a bit. Maybe I can slow his bleeding. I do not know what we will do with him if I am able to help him, but... it is better than nothing and I lose nothing by trying." She looked up to the others briefly before turning back to Sel. "Go on if you must. I will understand."

She took a knife and cut his shirt off of him, mostly because it was easier than trying to pull it off without aggravating his injuries. She used the water she'd brought to drink to try and clean off whatever dirt and blood she could before eventually finding herself stuck on the matter of bandages.

I can get another in town, she thought. Hopefully.

Pulling the light blue scarf from her head, she used her knife to tear it down the middle. That gave her a couple of fairly long strips of light fabric that might be just good enough to be bandages, though it'd certainly never be wearable again. She only had the most general idea of where the bones in his arm needed to be, but Safiyeh had a fairly reliable hunch that they didn't belong on the outside. Stab wounds... well, the best she could do for now was slow the bleeding. She had neither the knowledge nor the tools to stitch up or even cauterize something that serious.

She cursed softly to herself and pushed hair out of her eyes with her wrist to avoid getting blood all over herself. Safiyeh looked down to inspect her handiwork. Here she was, in the dark, without water, surrounded by strangers and enemies, and covered in her ally's blood. At least she could hope that she'd done Sel some good, though it would be hard for her to tell until either he stopped breathing or he came around.

Bad old day this was turning out to be.

(Untrained heal check with a total of +17: WIS +1, roll of sixteen. The DC to stabilize someone is fifteen. I think Sel has better luck than he seems....)

Safiyeh's ministrations seemed to be having the desired effect. Sel still wasn't in good shape, but he no longer seemed to be actively dying on them. Still, he definitely needed some kind of trained medical attention, and didn't look like coming to any time soon.

Gillet could hear the aggravating grinding noise of somebody piling yet another boulder on top of the trapdoor clearly. It was a good bet that noise would carry, though how far he couldn't say. As for noises more immediately pertinent to his situation, there didn't seem to be any for the moment. Gillet had taken care to open and close the door quietly during his foray, but it was a good bet the zombies would make at least some noise.

Kenner had by now moved to Sel's side, looking on as Safiyeh performed her ministrations, "Thank you, miss," he said quietly, upon seeing that they'd had the desired effect, "Could you stay with him, please?"

Having come to a decision, he drew himself up, addressing Gillet and Orson, "I'm coming with you," he said, "I'm the one who led us down here, I have to help try to get us out."

Driscoll watched the entire incident from a distance, shaking his head at Tristan's request for someone to give medical aid. It was already known by others that he clearly lacked in knowledge and capability of healing; though to be fair, the newcomers did not know this. It was, if anything, fortunate that Safiyeh had managed to at least keep Sel from dying--while such an incident wouldn't have been completely devastating to the party, it would not have been beneficial in the long run. However, it would be time to be thankful later.

Zombies, he heard? To Driscoll, this was anything but an actual problem. After all, a super-focused burst of positive energy would be enough to kill them easily, and he had more energy for that than he did for the assault that he was sure injured Vanthus to no small extent. Regardless, that would be later. This is now. Hopefully, Vanthus lacked access to any sort of magical medical aid; such a thing would prove troublesome in the future.

And so, the mage stood, and also turned, walking towards his original teammates and Kenner. If anything, he might as well bother with this; being more of "hired arcane muscle" than the other two, it wouldn't hurt. He addressed the three in his usual matter-of-fact manner, "I am also participating in this. I sincerely doubt simple animated corpses would pose much of a challenge anyway, but that point aside, it would be rather boring and unproductive to sit behind like that and let you do all the work in a situation like this, would it not?"

Orson gave Driscoll a terse nod, and then started trotting lazily towards the oncoming zombies. "Well, might as well be getting to work soon as not, I'd say. Besides. This has been a fucking bad day today. I'm just glad that these dead bastards decided to help me work out my.... issues."

"I'd thought they would have made more noise," Gillet said, sounding a little worried as a he followed just behind Orson. "There's a door in the way, and I don't think they're much for doorknobs, and yet I don't hear a thing."

Orson's hunch about the shambling dead was correct. There were three of them in the corridor, seemingly sniffing at the air, as if in search of something. That changed as the door opened, with gaping eye sockets fixing on the people beyond, and rotting limbs stirring into montion.

(Right then. initiative is as follows:

Gillet
Orson
Kenner
Driscoll
The shambling dead.
The map will be updated if I deem it necessary.

Orson does not delay, but merely strides forth into the room, as if the zombies concerned him not at all. They really didn't. He just calmly took a few steps towards the closest of the living-impaired that he could see, hefted his longsword over his head, and struck down with a (for him) leisurely slash that on a normal man would probably rend flesh from bone.

Alas, it seemed the zombie would not be so easily felled. Orson's strike connected with the zombie's collarbone, but failed to penetrate any further. Net result - nothing, since it was doubtful that such a mere flesh wound would slow it down.

(A miss, in essence, but whoever heard of a zombie dodging a blow? Gillet may act, should he so choose.)

He dropped his rapier at his feet. He'd need to polish it later, but he reminded himself that the dirt he just got on it was probably a lot better to have on the sword than the zombie blood it was his aim to spill. He drew out one of his daggers and readied it before him.

Thus far, the zombie seemed unperturbed by efforts to perforate, cut it in half, or otherwise inconvenience it. Kenner moved up into the doorway, crossbow in hand, and took a shot at one of the other two undead. It seemed he was less confident than the others of his ability to survive within melee range.

The shot struck the zombie dead in the chest, knocking it back slightly. Unfortunately, a hit that would have been undoubtedly fatal to a living person was no more than a minor inconvenience to the zombie.

Safiyeh watched the others go ahead. If she were going to get Sel out of here, he'd have to be moved, and... She glanced over to Tristan.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

Pulling Sel's good arm over her shoulder, she lifted him slowly off the stone floor. The others had left, and she and Tristan needed to follow if they wanted to finish this job, get out alive, and maybe go find someone who could really take care of their friend.

"Tristan," she said quietly. The nobleman was quite fond of his own status and capabilities... though he seemed to lack the initiative to take charge as she'd feared he might. A man like him could easily get quite bossy, and Safiyeh didn't feel like dealing with it. Of all the people she could be giving orders, Tristan was an odd target, but he had dealt well with it so far.

"Please to stay with me a while until we catch up to the others. If anything happens, I cannot fight when I am carrying him, but I will not leave him. I am sorry if there is inconvenience. Hopefully it will not be for long and we can go find him some help."

With that, she headed forward after the others, doing her best not to rip open any horrific wounds on her unlucky friend.

Tristan looked from Safiyeh to the unconscious ally with a slight frown. "You seem to have done a most excellent job of tending to his wounds," he noted quietly. "I will stay close to you and make sure that all continues to go as planned."

Truthfully, Tristan was relatively unsure of his ability to hold his own in a fight against a group of zombies; his only reliable weapon was that crossbow he had filched from one of the hoodlums that had tried to kill them all the other night. Spoils of war, or something. He was by no means a decent shot, or at least, he had had little time to practice with the weapon, and it was unnecessary for him to prepare vulgar combat magic. If he needed defense, he would have to call on Argus, his faithful celestial hound summon.

Then again, Tristan knew that he had proven himself to have heroic fiber in the past. He was certain that he could hold his own in combat, were it necessary for him to do so, but he would rather avoid such a display. It would be remarkably uncouth for him to do battle with zombies at close range, and he would prefer to save his cleaning cantrips for later. He simply could not afford to get blood and undead goo all over his carefully tailored garments, even if his favored blazer was red. Dried blood is not entirely red, after all, he mused, and who knows what kind of stains the walking dead are capable of inflicting upon my fashionable wardrobe?

Driscoll looked onward at the ensuing fight. This, if anything looked bad--Orson was off his usual brutal "game", while Gillet was apparently being particularly ineffective once again. While one of the meatheads was doing well in regards to HITTING the walking rotting bag of meat and bones that was once living, it really didn't look like it was having much in the way of real effectiveness on it...

So once again, fate hangs in the hands of my prodigous intellect, it seems. ...Pity the hallway is utterly choked. Utterly and completely unsuitable for firing from here--and I'll have to risk it getting a free shot on me in order to get a good firing angle...but that will have to do, it seems...

And so, the warmage braced himself, raising his buckler up in position to deflect any possible attack that a zombie may make, as he moved through, passing by Kenner, Orson, and Gillet as he ended up on the right side of the zombie, moving further out before turning and starting his quick spell, chanting and making gestures immediately...

"Purifying light, return this entity to the grave! Disruptor!"

Light gathered into his hands, and a faint white beam shot from them out toward the animated corpse in an attempt to strike its source of power; in fact, this was not light, but mildly concentrated positive energy focused to attack the very power that animates undead such as these...

(Moving to a spot three to the right of the zmobie/zmombie/zobmie/zombie, and casting Disrupt Undead on it)

Hauling the unconscious Sel through the tunnel was a slow process, since the pair were doing their best not to aggravate his injuries. From up ahead, the sounds of battle could be heard, in the form of rather wet noises, and that infernal moaning of the zombies. Behind them, the noise of boulders being rolled onto the trapdoor seemed to have ceased.

Evading the zombie's efforts to clutch at him with ease, Driscoll cast his spell, to more effect than anyone had managed thus far. It seemed the zombie's movements grew more feeble, as the energies animating its rotting shell were disrupted. Bits and pieces fell from its body, the connections of flesh no longer sufficient to carry their weight. It still stood, though, and reached out towards Gillet, teeth bared.

Despite his accomplishment, Driscoll might notice that the moaning was everywhere now, echoing through the tunnels, its source impossible to pinpoint. There were unquestionably more zombies in the tunnels than these three. And there was a set of gaping double doors at his back, beyond which lay who knew what.

Gillet managed to overcome the horror of those clutching, dead hands reaching for him, and struck out, severing one of the zombie's arms. Driscoll's spell must have seriously weakened it. It shouldn't take much more to put it down for good.

Orson, unfortunately, had to deal with two fresh (a term applied very loosely indeed) zombies coming at him, intent on latching onto him and devouring his tasty, succulent flesh. The first took a nasty swipe to the midsection, sending it falling back, entrails spilling out and generally adding to the already oppressive stench. Unfortunately, he didn't get enough time to set himself properly to meet the second, his strike going wide. Thankfully, he was able to fend off the zombie's attempts to latch onto him.

Emboldened now by his own demonstration of knife-fighting prowess (or sheer luck with a single swipe; Gillet wasn't sure which it was but decided against dwelling on it), Gillet prepared to finish what he started, brandishing his trusty dagger and slashing in exactly the way he was not taught to slash a living opponent (which really involved more of a stabbing motion) but seemed to work better on these nasties. He swung, his muscular little arm pumping.

A hit! A very palpable hit. But not palpable enough, as the thing was still coming after him. Gillet didn't think he needed to back away, so he didn't. Just brandished the little knife before him like it was part weapon, part talisman.

"I think I've got this one on the next hit!" Gillet called, not wanting either of his stronger friends to waste their time on what the gnome could finish up.

For a moment Orson was very displeased with himself. He shouldn't be playing with these things, he was at WORK. And it was time for him to act like it. As such, he pulled back from his quick strike on the ones approaching to immediately fall heavily on the zombie he had scored a telling blow against. He hoped that this would ensure that this one would never, EVER rise again.